Baal

By Robert McCammon

A woman gives birth to a child whose evilness threatens all mankind Mary Kate is an ordinary woman: a waitress in a diner, stuck in a loveless marriage to an English-major-turned-cabbie. But whoever assaults her in a New York City alley is far from ordinary. As the man’s icy grip burns her skin, she couldn’t grasp the dark fate that awaits her. The rape leaves her carrying a child, who she and her husband name Jeffrey. As they try to live as a family, a mysterious force poisons them against each other. Finally overcome with hate for her husband, Mary Kate kills him, sending herself to jail and the child to an orphanage. There the boy takes a new name, Baal, and develops sinister powers that flourish as he approaches adulthood. When Baal becomes a man, the whole world will tremble before him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jan 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781453231463

Robert McCammon

Robert McCammon is the New York Times bestselling author of Boy’s Life and Gone South, among many critically acclaimed works of fiction, with millions of copies of his novels in print. He is a recipient of the Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement Award, the Grand Master Award from the World Horror Convention, and is a World Fantasy Award winner. He lives in Alabama. Visit the author at RobertMcCammon.com.

Book preview

Baal

Robert R. McCammon

For Michael, my brother, and Bill, my friend

Contents

Prologue

ONE Who is like unto the beast?—Revelation 13:4

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TWO … and who is able to war with him?—Revelation 13:4

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THREE And I saw … a sea of glass mingled with fire.—Revelation 15:2

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About the Author

Prologue

FURY STUNG THE SKY.

Kul-Haziz smelled it. It had the odor of clashing weapons, of men’s sweat, of new blood, of old sins.

Smelling it, he narrowed his eyes and looked over the backs of the grazing flock to the north. The sun hung high in a white sky, burning as it had for a thousand years. Its eye saw what was happening beyond the crags, beyond the flat plains, over meadows and hills in the distance. It saw what he could not. He could only smell.

His eyes fixed on the grim horizon, Kul-Haziz took his gnarled staff and walked slowly among his flock, softly nudging the flanks of the sheep. He was a man who, with his wife and young son, had always followed the rainfall because the rainfall meant new grass. Life for the flock. Now, in the distant north toward the city of Hazor, he saw the gathering of dark shapes that looked like rainclouds. But no. There was no odor of rain in the air. He would have smelled it days before. No, not rain. Only the smell of fury.

Behind him, inside a goatskin tent, his wife looked up from her mending. On the other side of the rolling, slightly sloped plain his son had been striking his staff on the ground to urge straying animals back to the flock. Now he looked toward his father.

Kul-Haziz stood like stone on the hillside. He put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. He didn’t know what was happening. He had heard the stories from other nomadic families: the wrath of Yahweh has fallen upon us. We are a doomed race, they said with blabbering tongues. Yahweh will destroy us all for our wickedness. So said the shepherd prophets, the nomads of the grasslands, the kings of the hills. His heart beat within him. It sounded like someone crying out for knowledge.

His son reached him through the flock. He grasped his father’s hand.

There was a flash like lightning, but no lightning. Far away in the distance, to the north, toward the city of Hazor. It was bright blue and blinding, intense, terrible. Kul-Haziz clapped a hand over his eyes. His son held to him, hiding his face. Behind him his wife cried out and the sheep scattered all around. Kul-Haziz felt the heat on his hand. When it had died away he looked again and saw nothing. His son was staring up at him, his eyes asking a question the man could not answer.

And then he saw it. Over the far crags, beyond the flat plains: trees bending in a fierce wind, breaking off and flying through the air, their branches turning to fire. And the grasslands beyond blackened as if an army were marching across them, leaving Hazor behind. The fire army crawled across the plains below, scorching them. Thornscrubs exploded in flame. Fire ripped the sands.

As the wind reached Kul-Haziz up on the grass-covered hill it whirled around him, tore at his rags, whispered the secrets into his ear. The flock bawled.

Only a short time now before the fire would come. It had consumed Hazor and was now devouring every living thing on all sides of that city. Kul-Haziz knew his family could take only a few more breaths before the warming air turned to raging white flame.

At his side his son said, Father?

The prophets had been right. Their skulls and sticks, their writing across the sky had foretold the coming of the end. It had only been a matter of time.

Kul-Haziz said, The great god Baal is no more.

He stood like stone.

Burning stone.

ONE

Who is like unto the beast?

—Revelation 13:4

1

ON THE TELEVISION SCREEN the newscaster was speaking of falling economies and the latest South American earthquakes.

Mary Kate slid a cup of coffee across the cigarette-burned countertop to the night’s last customer. He looked at her through bleary eyes and mumbled a thank-you.

Ernest was leaning against the counter watching the late-night news program; he always did. She knew the routine. Holy Jesus Christ! he said. They're killin’ the city with all this tax shit! You can’t make a decent livin’ no more!

Man shouldn’t even try, said the customer. Should just be a bum and lay around in the park like all those kids do. The world has gone to hell.

There was a clatter of plates as Mary Kate gathered them up. Watch that! Ernest said. On the fly-blown black-and-white screen the solemn face said, … fear another assassination attempt…

She glanced at her wristwatch. Late! she thought. "I’m running late! Joe’s home by now and he’d be tired as hell. He’ll want something to eat and I know how it is when he doesn't get his dinner on time. Damn it!

You know what it is? the customer was asking Ernest. It’s time, that’s what it is. The world has run the circle. You know what I’m talking about? The circle’s been run and now, by God, it’s time to pay up.

… kidnapped yesterday by members of Japan’s Black Mask terrorist organization. Ransom demands have not yet… said the newscaster.

The circle’s been run? Ernest asked. He had turned his head to look at the other man and one side of his heavy-jowled face reflected the television’s blue glow. What’d you mean by that?

You’re only given so much time, y’know, said the customer, his gaze flickering from Ernest to the newscaster and back again. When your time is up, you go. Same’s true of cities, of countries even. You know what happened to Rome, right? It reached its peak and then fell right over the edge.

So New York and Rome both got somethin’ in common, huh?

Sure. I read about all this somewhere. Or maybe I saw it on the tube.

Mary Kate had cradled greasy, cigarette-butt-littered plates in her arms. The odors repelled her. People are just like pigs, she mused. Oink oink oink just like pigs. She went through a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen and set the dirty dishes in a rack near the sink. The combination cook and dishwasher, a young black named Woodrow, lifted his chin and watched her intently, a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth.

Do Baby Mary need a ride home tonight? he asked her; he always did.

I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.

It’s right on my way. And I got me some good-lookin’ rims last week.

I’ll take the bus.

I can save you some money.

She turned toward him and saw the heat simmering behind his eyes; that look of his always frightened her. I can save you some time. I don’t need a ride. I’ll take the bus like I always take the bus. You understand that now?

Woodrow grinned around the cigarette. An ash fell like a block of marble from the Tower of Babel. I dig, sister. You don’t go for the black meat is all.

She swung the kitchen doors shut behind her and the sound made Ernest look up sharply. His gaze fixed on her for a few seconds and then turned again to the television, where a long-legged weathergirl was explaining that the heat wave would continue at least through Thursday.

That bastard! Mary Kate began methodically wiping the grime from ashtrays scattered along the counter. I’ve got to get a new job, she told herself; she always did. I’ve got to get a new job and get my ass out of here. I don’t care what it is as long as I’m away from here!

Here I am, she said. Twenty years old and a waitress in a slop shop, married to an English-major dropout who drives a cab. Christ! I’ve got to get out of here even if it means … doing something I don’t want to do. She wondered what Joe’s reaction would be if one night in their cramped steaming apartment she touched him gently and whispered, Joe my darling dearest one on earth, I think I’d be happier as a whore.

There was a click! as Ernest switched off the television set. The customer had gone. A dime lay beside the coffee cup.

Time to go home, Ernest said. Another day, another dollar. Another lousy dollar. Hey! Woodrow! Hey! You locking up back there?

Woodrow called back in his best slave imitation, I’se lockin’ up, boss!

Mary Kate folded her apron neatly and laid it beneath the counter. She said, I’m leaving now, okay? I’ve got to get home and cook something for Joe.

Ernest was still propped against the counter, staring at the empty eye of the television. Without looking around, he said, So? Leave.

She pushed through the frosted-glass door out into the street where a red neon sign flashed Ernie’s Grill off and on, off and on a thousand times a day; once she’d actually counted.

The air was as thick and heavy as if she were standing in the center of a steambath. She walked away from the grill toward her bus stop three blocks away, keeping her purse high on her shoulder to guard against hit-and-run thieves.

At one time she had wanted to go to secretarial school; she and Joe would be able to support each other and maybe save a little on the side. But then he had dropped out of school and his subsequent depression infected her as well. They were now like two survivors of a shipwreck in a leaking life raft. Too weak to live, too scared to die, just drifting, drifting. Things had to change.

And now she found herself doubting that she still loved him. She didn’t know. No one had ever explained to her how she should feel; her father was the strict conservative type, a grease-handed mechanic in a New Jersey garage, and her mother was a chattering bingo addict who wore sunglasses after dark, as if she hoped to be discovered for the movies by talent scouts scrounging amid damaged canned goods in second-rate supermarkets.

She still felt attracted to Joe, yes. Of course she did. But love? Love? That thrilling passionate dip into the soul of someone else? She really couldn’t put it into words, and if she asked Joe to help her articulate it she was certain he’d laugh. It wasn’t that she was no longer healthy or pretty or anything like that, though when she stood before a mirror she had to admit she was far too thin and her face had taken on the blank stare of a well-worn woman. No, something was needed; something drastic.

The grill was far from her thoughts now. Ahead the streetlights glowed yellow all along the curb. The empty scarred stone faces of apartment buildings watched her pass as solemnly as priests with bowed heads. Garbage cans overflowed into the gutter and newspaper headlines shrieked of murder and arson and the threat of war.

This heat, she said. This heat. The sweat had burst out across the bridge of her nose. It had collected under her arms and now trickled down her sides. How many more days of this? Already two weeks. How much longer? And only the beginning of summer, with the hottest months yet to come.

The bus stop. No, no, a block further. Her footsteps on the empty street echoed back and forth, back and forth between the stone walls. How much longer, she asked herself, can I take this?

Ahead she saw that the globe of one of the streetlights had been broken. Someone had thrown a stone or bottle and broken the glass, but not hard enough to completely shatter the bulb. It flickered wildly, buzzing like a great lost insect, yellow to black, yellow to black, yellow to black. It threw black shadows across the faces of the fearful watching priests.

Come here, someone said. It was a gentle, distant voice like that of a little child.

She turned and wiped her forearm across her face. It came away wet.

There was no one. The street was empty and quiet but for the noise of the bulb above her head. She pulled her purse higher on her arm, clamped it in her armpit. Hunching her head down, she walked on toward the bus stop. Her bus would be there soon.

Come here, said the voice, cool and startling as if a cube of ice had been pressed suddenly against her forehead. She stopped abruptly and stood motionless.

Mary Kate glanced over her shoulder. Someone’s playing a joke, she thought. Some little kid is playing a joke. That is not funny, she said to no one. Go on home.

But before she could move away the voice said softly, Here. I'm here.

Something touched her; it was like smoke, grasping with whirling changing fingers. She felt it moving beneath her wet garments; her flesh crawled. The voice had walked up the skeletal staircase of her spine. And now it descended with measured steps.

I'm here, someone said, and she turned to peer into a black garbage-strewn alley that smelled of urine and sweat.

Someone was standing there, someone tall. Not a child. A man? Wearing a man’s clothes, yes. A man. Who? A mugger? She felt an electric impulse to run. Above her head the broken bulb screamed in shades of yellow and black.

Do I know you? Do I know you? she found herself asking; a damned stupid question to ask a mugger, she angrily told herself. Her grip tightened around her purse. She was going to run and keep running until she’d lost him.

No, he said quietly. Don't run.

He remained in shadow. She could see his shoes, a pair of battered black wingtips below dark trousers. He made no attempt to come closer to her. He simply stood framed in the alley entrance, with his arms at his sides, and she felt the urge to escape drained from her. No need to run, she told herself. This is someone I know.

I’m someone you know, he said in his childlike whisper. I’m someone you haven’t seen for a long while. There is no need for fear.

What do you want with me?

Time. Just a moment out of all moments you will ever live. Is that too much to ask of a friend?

No. Not too much to ask. She felt strange and heavy. Her head swam in a pool of yellow and black; her tongue was a plate of concrete jammed back into her mouth.

If I reach out my hand for you, he asked, will you take it?

She shuddered. No. Yes. Yes. My bus, she said in a helpless, unfamiliar voice.

His arm pierced the shadows. The fingers were long and thin; filth caked the nails.

The heat lay heavy about her shoulders and her hair, wet and stringy, clung to her neck. I can’t breathe! she screamed inwardly. I’m drowning! I’m drowning. The mad buzzing streetlight drilled into her brain and lit it in glaring yellow neon. I don't want to, she said to herself.

And he answered, You will.

His hand touched hers. The fingers locked around her knuckles, moved over her palm, clenched her wrist with a steadily rising force.

And then from the alley shadows a face yellow-illuminated burst its soundlessly screaming mouth open to devour her. She had no time to see him; she was overcome by a powerful high odor of something burning. His flesh was wet and soft—spongy—and hot. He bore down on her as she fell screaming and clawing to the concrete.

He smashed her head into the sidewalk. Again. Again. Something was bleeding; her ear was bleeding. The hot blood was streaming down her neck. YOU BITCH! he shrieked in a voice that flailed her like a burning whip. YOU DAMNED COCKSUCKING BITCH AND ALL YOUR LOVERS DOGS! The man’s breath smelled foul and hot. She cringed as he beat at her breasts; he ripped her blouse and raked the smooth skin of her abdomen with his nails.

She screamed in agony and sang harmony with the streetlight. A window across the street slammed shut. Then another.

With both hands he tore away her skirt. Then he spread wide her thighs and drove in with a mad inhuman strength that ground her buttocks against the concrete. He pressed his fingers against her eyes and for an instant she thought, I’m dead oh God I’m dead. OOOOHHHH GODDDD! she screamed aloud. Her mouth was filled suddenly by a greedy eager tongue.

DIE YOU BITCH DIE YOU BITCH YOU CUNT DIE! he screamed pounding and grinding and pounding and pounding until he climaxed with a fierce shudder that drew the breath from him and made her whine with pain.

Hey! Hey! You! Get away from there! Brakes squealed and rubber burned. She felt his weight rise from her and smelled him again; the odor made her vomit on the concrete. She heard someone running; no, two people running. Someone running away and someone running toward her. Oh God oh God oh God help me.

Mary Kate opened her eyes and saw a young man. Woodrow. Woodrow running toward her and behind him a fire-engine-red Buick with shining chrome wheel rims that caught the distorted reflections of streetlights. Woodrow reaching her and bending down and the cigarette dropping from his lips and…

2

HE CRACKED THE TOP off a can of beer and stood at an open window staring down at the dark quiet street. She’s been late before but not like this. The bus never ran this late.

He’d tried the grill but it was past closing and no one answered the telephone. Maybe the bus had broken down. No, she would’ve called. Maybe she missed it and had to walk. No, that was a hell of a long way. Maybe she’d had an accident; or maybe she’d gotten crazy like she had before when she didn’t come home for two days and they’d finally found her sitting in the park, doing nothing but just sitting.

Shit. Why does she do these things to me? He drank the beer down and placed the can on the splintery windowsill. She’s more than two hours late. More than two hours and where can she be this time of night? He picked up the telephone and started to dial her parents’ apartment in Jersey City but then he recalled her mother’s whining voice. He put the receiver back on its cradle. Not yet.

Out in the distance, above the packed dirty rows of square-shouldered buildings, a police siren wailed. Or was it an ambulance? He’d never learned to tell the difference like some people could. Something had happened. Standing in the dark small fourth-floor apartment that inhaled the odors wafting from beneath other doors, he was certain something had happened.

And he stood waiting and frozen until someone knocked at the door. But he knew it would not be her; no. The police officer with an impassive acne-scarred face simply said, I have a car outside.

In the car on the way to the hospital he asked, Is she all right? I mean…

I’m sorry, Mr. Raines, the police officer said. They asked me to pick you up.

He sat in an antiseptic-white waiting room on the seventh floor and clenched his hands. Hit by a car. That was it. Oh Jesus God hit by some drunk while she was walking to her bus stop.

Even at this early-morning hour, Bellevue moved at a frantic life-and-death pace. He watched the doctors and their nurses consulting charts in low-keyed, serious voices. And a sight that chilled him to the bone, a man in a suit sprinting down the hospital corridor, his shoes clat-clat-clatting on the linoleum. He sat and watched these private dramas until finally he was aware of someone standing beside him.

Mr. Joseph Raines? someone asked. A tall gaunt man with tightly curled gray hair. He said, I’m Lt. Hepelmann. He flashed an N.Y.P.D. badge and Joe rose from his seat.

No, no. Sit down. Please. Hepelmann put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and eased him back down into the chair. He sat beside him and drew his own chair closer, as if he were a friend about to advise him on a personal matter.

I knew she was late and I knew something had happened, said Joe, staring into his palms. I tried the grill but no one answered the phone. He looked up. A hit-and-run driver?

Hepelmann's deep-set blue eyes were calm and untroubled. He was used to scenes like this. No, Mr. Raines. I don’t know who told you that, but she was not struck by a car. Your wife has been .. . assaulted. She’s safe now but still in shock. She might have died but some nigger saved her. Ran the guy off and chased him a block before he got away.

Assaulted? Assaulted? What does that mean?

Hepelmann’s jaw tightened. This was the moment that broke them to pieces, the mental image of some guy ramming himself in between thrashing thighs. There was sexual penetration, Mr. Raines, he said softly, as if sharing a secret.

Raped. Jesus Christ. Jesus Holy Christ. Raped. He looked directly into Hepelmann’s eyes with a savage ferocity. You got the sonofabitch?

No. We haven’t been able to get a description. Probably it’s some nut who has a history of … violations. When Mrs. Raines recovers we’ll get her to page through our mug files. We'll get the guy.

Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man.

Listen, you want a cup of coffee or something? Here. A cigarette.

He took the cigarette the lieutenant offered. Christ, he said weakly. But she’s okay, right? I mean, no broken bones or anything?

No broken bones. Hepelmann leaned forward until he might have been whispering in the other man’s ear. I've worked a lot of these cases, Mr. Raines. These things happen a hundred times a day. It’s rough, yes. But you adjust to it. And usually the woman adjusts faster than the man. Everything’s okay now. It’s over.

The man didn’t react to this statement as Hepelmann had seen others react. He simply sat and smoked the cigarette, his eyes boring down the tunnel-like hospital corridor. Someone was paging a Dr. Holland on the address system.

Some people are just like animals, Hepelmann said. They think of one thing and they go after it. Hell, they don’t care who it is. I’ve investigated violation cases where the victims were eighty-year-old grandmothers! Hell, they don’t care. Their minds are gone already.

Joe sat quiet and still.

You know what they ought to do? And I’m a firm believer in this. They ought to take these damned guys and cut their balls off. I’m sincere.

Someone was walking toward them down the corridor. Joe watched the man approach. He presumed the man was either another police officer or a doctor because he carried a clipboard.

Hepelmann stood up and shook the man’s hand. Dr. Wynter, this is Mr. Raines. I’ve told him she’s going to be okay.

That's correct, Mr. Raines, the doctor said. There were deep lines of strain around his eyes. She’s suffered some minor cuts and abrasions but otherwise she’s physically sound. She’s in a mild state of shock now; it’s natural after something like this so don’t be alarmed. Now you’re going to have to be very strong for her. When she begins to recover she’s going to have a little orientation disorder. And she may believe you think less of her. That’s a problem many rape victims encounter.

He was nodding. Can I see her?

The doctor’s eyes flashed over to Hepelmann and then back to the other man. I’d rather you didn’t right now. We’re trying to keep her sleeping under sedation. Tomorrow we can get you in to see her for a few minutes.

I’d like to see her now.

Dr. Wynter blinked.

The doctor’s right, said Hepelmann, grasping the other man’s elbow. Look. It’s been a tough night. Go home and get some sleep. Okay? I’ll even give you a ride.

Tomorrow, Dr. Wynter said. Check with me tomorrow.

Joe ran a hand over his face. The men were right. She should sleep for a while and, anyway, there was nothing he could do. He said, Okay.

Here, said Hepelmann, stepping toward the elevators on the other side of the corridor. I’ll give you a ride home.

Before the elevator doors closed on Raines and the policeman, Dr. Wynter said, She's going to be all right.

Wynter stood motionless for a moment after they had gone. He trembled inwardly from the confrontation with the man. What was he? A taxi driver, Hepelmann had told him. The man had looked intelligent; a high forehead, eyes that when not cold with fear would be warm and generous, moderately long dark hair that curled over his collar. An intelligent man. Thank God he had not pressed to see his wife.

Dr. Wynter walked back up the corridor to the nurses’ station. He asked one of them, Mrs. Raines is resting now?

Yes, sir. She’ll be calm for a while.

Very good. Now listen to me well. You make your nurses understand this. He lowered his voice. No word on any other floor about her condition. This is our problem. Okay?

Yes, sir.

He nodded and continued through the corridor around to her room. He stopped himself as he reached for the door. No need to look in on her again; no need to

Reviews for Baal

[edward.lorn · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Baal is Rosemary's Baby and The Omen and Megido all rolled up in one burrito. The best parts about the novel are the opening and final acts, basically the first and last fifty pages of the book. I was successfully dragged into a character drama concerning a couple trying to cope with a pregnancy after the wife is raped and brutalized. Then the book changed, drastically, and I quickly lost interest in what seemed to be a religious thriller with supernatural undertones. Then it changed again, morphing into an end of days scenario before wrapping up with a strong action-packed finale.

While Baal is well-written, I could almost feel McCammon's growing pains. He seemed to want so much out of this book, but couldn't quite settle on one coherent theme. What's the worst part about humanity? Our sex drive? Our tendency to lean toward violent resolutions over peaceful ones? The Kardashians? I keed, I keed...

In summation: Only read Baal if you're a completionist. And please, please, for Tom Cruise's sake, do not make this the first McCammon book you read.

[isabelx_21 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Interesting but not really scary enough for a horror story, as I went straight to bed after finishing it without feeling the need to watch some telly first.

[nkscf · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Baal was a very nice novel to read late at night. Not that it was scary mind you, but it was something that helped fit in with the time of day I read it. I enjoyed the characterizations of Baal and the men who follow after him to make sure this demon given flesh doesn't make good on his promise to destroy Israel, which he harbors a grudge against for destroying Canaan. Unfortunately, there are some parts in this novel that are either never followed up on or discarded for other ideas. I may be wrong on some accounts, because I could have accidentally passed over some plot points due to my speed reading. However, these problems aren't that major at all and are small enough to not effect the feeling I had throughout my time reading it. I do have to say that I enjoyed reading Swan's Song before this, otherwise I might be on the fence as to whether or not I'd check McCammon out again. However, for the man's first novel, Baal isn't that bad at all. 3 and a half stars out of 5.

[flowerfairy_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I love Robert McCammon's work. This book is certainly the exception. I'm glad this was not the first of his books I read, becasue it certainly would have been the last and I would have missed out on one of my all time favortie authors. It was poorly written, the characters were flat and he went for shock value while trying to obtain horror. I would say skip this one and read Boy's Life or Wolf's Hour.

[tobinelliott · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This started out so strong, then it just seemed to lose its way. I found, starting at about a third of the way in, not really caring about what happened.

When I really sat down and analyzed why, the answer was obvious. It was (at least for me), two things.

The first was, Baal was centre stage for the first third, then essentially disappears until the very end. Don't call a book BAAL then make him absent for the bulk of the storyline.

The second issue was that, of the three characters that ultimately chase Baal to ground, only one has any real motivation to do so, and he's the guy bent on revenge for the murder of the Eskimos. Michael's secret should have been offered much sooner, because it was poorly hidden and would have enriched the storyline.

Initially I wondered why McCammon always sounded a little embarrassed with this novel, but now I see it. With more experience or a better editor, this would have been a killer novel. Would almost be cool to see him revisit it and rewrite it from the ground up.

[harpua_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was a good first novel by this great author. I was so impressed a few months ago when I read his novel Swan Song that I went out and found a large portion of his other novels. Baal seemed like a good place to start. Not a bad novel at all (though nowhere near the level of Swan Song). I could tell however that this was his first novel. Some of the plot points seemed forced, the characters were flat and the ending was weak. However, overall this was a fun book and I enjoyed the shock value that he provides at different points. Needless to say, this was a decent book and I know that his later books get better, so I’m looking forward to more of his novels.